The Ecstasy of Saint Abigail
by Werewolf's Oneshots
Summary: Hannibal eats Abigail alive as she watches him transform into a monster. [MATURE]


**Warning: Blood, gore, violence graphic depictions of all those things, nudity, twisted spirituality, monster, transformation, incapacitation, murder, death, disturbing themes.**  
I tried to make this sexy at first but then I realized... there's no way to make this sexy, so I just went with dark and disturbing. Gore and blood and nastiness and nudity abound. I feel the need to apologize for being so weird, I can't imagine anyone besides myself who would enjoy this, but here it is I guess. Also I stole a line from that Ludo song, The Horror of Our Love, but limited myself to just one.  
Inspiration: The Ecstasy of Saint Theresa, my love of monsters, and speculation on Abigail's fate. Watching Hannibal always brings out the darkness in me. This to me feels like a story to expand on if I can get more inspiration, so consider this a prelude.  
Please offer any thoughts, comments, critiques, or corrections. I edited this a couple times but always late at night, so I might have missed something.

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In the spot were her father slit her throat, Abigail wakes up in darkness. Prone on the floor she has no context to her location except the ceiling and cupboards seen from below, but she immediately recognizes it. It's cold. Her fingertips and face feel icy. She struggles to breathe, her chest feels like its cocooned in cement and she coughs in panic. Is she drugged? A sound from the shadows coos to her, shushes her, and she holds her breath in fear.  
A shadow shifts and darkness parts and for a moment Abigail sees her father (or is it Will Graham?) before Hannibal's face comes into focus. She is relieved, until she remembers their last conversation.  
_Are you going to kill me?_  
_I'm sorry I could not save you in this life._  
Tears well up in her eyes and fall freely down her face. She cannot move, she cannot even feel her body. She tries to call out but it's too hard to pull air into her lungs and instead she emits a tiny whine from deep in her throat, and somehow it is more full of despair than a scream could have been, pregnant with the promise of all the tears she'd yet to cry.  
He moves forward slowly, his face not quite the uncaring mask it had been. He wasn't himself. She remembers those last moments, talking to him as he held her to his body with his strong arms. His warmth was like a beating heart in the empty shell of the house, and his face was sorry in a detached way. Not for her, he didn't feel any remorse for her impending death. His eyes were too distant. He felt the loss of the idea of her, the idea of the Abigail Hobbs he could groom and care for as long as it interested him. For that lost opportunity he had mourned.

Now he is trying to hold himself back, his face tells her so, staring down at her with a sorry hunger very much rooted in this present moment. Beautiful, pale like he is sick but at the same time radiant with power. He is waiting, poised to strike but for some reason not. Abigail has the startling sensation that there is something behind him, an inevitable presence, larger and holier than she'd ever experienced. She stares into the darkness behind Hannibal but sees nothing, and that scares her even more because she never remembered her house being so dark.  
In the blackness that was her childhood home, this spot in the kitchen in the greyish blue light of the moon is like a beacon, the light like someone fell asleep watching television and woke up in the silence of night illuminated by the glow of a dead channel. In the hallway Hannibal glows like God's angel come down to smite her, to suck her down to Hell with him in all the glory he could muster. White shirt unbuttoned, tan slacks wrinkled. Out of character imperfection. Warmth in a dead world. Moonlight sparkles blue over her unfeeling body but over him it seems radiant as fire. He kneels next to her and his body shakes. For minutes he hovers there, rippling, paused.

"I broke your neck," he explains, barely understandable. "At the fifth cervical vertebra. You are completely immobile and having trouble breathing." His accent is thick and his voice hoarse. He sounds like a far away country, further than across the Atlantic, like it was further than Earth itself. Filled with an unending hunger. It hadn't sounded like that before. Then she processes what he said and she cried more. "Quiet," he whispers, raising a trembling hand, wiping away her tears, resting his palm on her face. She can't feel his knees touching her side or his other hand brushing over her clothing, but when his skin touches her cheek it's like an electric shock. "You won't feel a thing."

The tremor in his hand worsens and his fingers tighten on her face, and in this moment she feels he is going to claw her skin away. Pain blossoms and she makes the tiny whimpering whine again but he pulls his hand away with a jerk. His eyes close in a grimace and he sort of doubles over for a moment- drips sweat off his brow and breathes in deeply- then he looks up again and growls, and his hand reaches out again, towards her neck. His nails are long, thick, pointed now, and golden, claws splitting the skin around his fingers. In fact his hole hand looks ready to split open like it is filled with pus, his joints bulbous and swollen, and hair sprouting on his fingers and palms and arms- she can see it growing, thick and dark, shielding his pale skin from the moonlight. She stares into his eyes in confusion.  
His eyes stare but not quite at her, like he is looking at her soul. His body jerks again and he moans. He doesn't mean to, she can see, and his expression changes to annoyance for a split second. Something about the moan arouses her the tiniest bit. She immediately regrets the thought as he lowers his body onto hers. She can only imagine the feeling of his muscles quaking against her, the light kiss of his breath as he smells her neck, presses his nose into her skin and drags his face down the way a lion drags its claws through hide. She can only imagine the feeling of his erection straining against his pants to get to her. His weight makes it even harder to breathe. His claws are traveling down her throat, following his nose down her body and to her belly, leaving light cuts over skin and fabric. Now he fumbles with her clothing, one clawed hand and one normal ill matched but getting the job done, pulling zippers and ripping buttons. Abigail's breathing speeds up, shallow and quick. What is he doing?

Soon her jacket, sweater and blouse are open down the front and she's exposed, nipples already erect from the cold. He traces one with a claw, so gentle it doesn't even scratch, cups her small breast in his hand. Starts to unbutton her pants. She gasps, moans, and through her fear is happy she made an audible sound. She tries to make more words, to tell him to stop, anything, but ends up out of breath. She can't see what his hands are frantically doing there, can't raise her head or her own hands to stop him.  
"Abigail," he mutters, and then trails off in another language. She can tell by his tone he is comforting her, coveting her. "Abigail," he says again, like she had just appeared in his thoughts spontaneously. He got her pants undone, finally, the button and zipper broken. He slides down to her feet, tugging at her jeans as he goes, his claws piercing the fabric and then her skin around her waist. She cries out, hearing the claws puncture the fabric, then as he tugged her forwards and her neck moved slightly, and it hurt so sharply she was quite startled. Her pants slide down off her (Had she been wearing her shoes or had he already disposed of them? She can't tell) and now she's completely naked on the floor. He casts her ruined clothes away and appear over her again. Is he glowing or is that her fear emanating off her skin? He sits with his legs on either side of her waist, straddling her, and he looks like he is about to burst from his clothes. His thighs stretch his pants, a tent forming at his groin where his own arousal is raging, the cuffs of his shirt taut around his wrists. He is larger now, and darker, only his face seems normal. Both his hands are clawed, his fingers bleeding through the fur as the gold claws force themselves out through his fingertips, splitting the skin. He smells like sex and blood and raw meat. "I'm sorry Abigail," he growls, and his accent is beyond Danish and now hellish, not foreign but beastial. "I hope we meet in the next life."

He cuts her belly open with his hand and though she can't feel it it hurts, it hurts more than anything she's ever felt. Her head twitches and shakes back and forth and she tries to scream, and manages to inaudibly mouth "Hannibal!" before running out of air. His claws sink deeper into her flesh and when he gets down bellow her bellybutton he pushes his hand down into her gut with a great might, simultaneously the muscles on his chest split and dark fur sprouts violently through his skin, leaving behind tatters of flesh almost as bloody as her stomach is. His shirt is ripping at the shoulders, his pant seams split around his groin and thighs and dark fur erupts from beneath them. His teeth protrude randomly from his face and it's almost enough to distract her from the pain shooting sparks through brain. Pain replaces her entire body and for a moment her vision is white hot fire, then she has a perfectly clear view of Hannibal, his hair a messy halo fringed in light, holding up a fist full of gore. The image of him like an idol before her turns something on in her mind like a twig snapping. The pain is pure and holy. His free hand holds up two fingers over her as if to bless her. Ropey intestines extend from her belly to him and she does finally scream, though it was quiet and not so full of fear as it is other emotions. His tongue, bloated and purple, slurps and lulls out of his gaping mouth. His hand reaches down to her pussy and fingers tickle into her even as he pulls more of her innards out into the moonlight. Brightness fills the entire room and then the entire world, and she is sure she's in hell. Hannibal's arms and legs covered in thick black hair but still glowing, still holding her entrails now to his lips to taste them, his penis massive and pink and slick and erect between his legs, and she feels his pleasure even as her life starts to ebb away slowly. She feels her soul leaving in the back of her mind and is terrified and relieved and sad, most of all sad because this pain she is feeling like needles piercing her eyes and lungs is the most wonderful feeling she had ever experienced. She immediately envies Hannibal for being the cause of it, and she was consumed with a love for him. He will honor her, and use every part of her, and in the next life he'll save her. Where he empties her she is filled instead with a passion for him and wishes it would never stop. But even as she thinks this the feeling diminishes, the light around them fades.

She is back on the floor of the dark kitchen. She watches Hannibal, who is completely normal in appearance if a bit sweaty (Was he ever a monster? Was he ever truly human?), holding a knife in one hand and her intestines in the other, pulling them to his face and licking, biting, tasting the organs, enjoying their freshness. They will taste better cooked, she wants to tell him, but she's not breathing anymore. She can't feel a thing, though she longs for the agony and the ecstasy again. Her world starts to fade. She can see blood leaving her in rhythmic spurts. Hannibal puts the knife down, sets the intestines aside and reaches both hands into her body, up to his forearms. She shudders and wishes she could feel it, so badly wanting him to fill her. She can feel in her throat things moving in her chest, and then he slowly pulls out more organs she cannot identify (Spleen? Stomach? Kidneys? Liver?). And now he's looking at her, into her eyes, calm and calculating just like she always remembered.  
"Abigail," he says clearly, the first time he was talking directly to her. "You are the most beautiful thing I have ever seen," he said, straddling her eviscerated stomach and leaning forward over her. A hollow compliment to sooth her, but she appreciates it. His pants soak up the blood, it runs upwards over his thighs like gravity had stopped working and she marveled for a moment, mind going foggy. "You die like angels sing," says the voice of her new God. Her heartbeat slowed. The blood on the floor is warming her up a little, and with Him beside her she is ready to die. Ready to be absorbed by Him, to become part of Him and nourish Him and ascend. She sees her father standing over her in the shadows and smiles at him, glad they are no longer apart. _Look Daddy, look how he will honor every part of me_, she says. _Look how worthy a God he is_.  
She sighs and closes her eyes. Instead of darkness behind her lids there is light, and she is content.

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End file.
